The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  Berwick opened his mouth to argue but was warned off by the two priests glaring at him.

  Rhys directed Phinn to inform the coroner of the finding then turned to Bianca. “Take them, child,” he said. “They no longer serve this unfortunate boy.”

  Chapter 7

  Bianca left the church and walked towards St. Paul’s Cathedral where between the old Grayfriars and Blackfriars’ defunct monasteries curved Paternoster Row. There was a time when, on procession, the clerics recited the great litany, and the opening line of the Lord’s prayer was as far as they got on this short stretch of lane. More likely, thought Bianca, the road was named for the abundance of bead makers, stationers, bookbinders, and text writers who sold their religious books and paternosters within the holy shadow of the venerable cathedral.

  Either way, she expected to find someone knowledgeable, someone who might be able to tell her about this particular rosary. As she neared the corner of St. Paul’s, she spied her young friend and sometimes accomplice, Fisk—a ten-year-old imp.

  Fisk didn’t see her fall in behind a horse and rider. When she was nearly opposite, Bianca leapt out, tackling him around the waist. The boy yelped in fright and his thin frame shuddered for a few seconds afterwards.

  Bianca smiled broadly. “I couldn’t resist,” she said.

  Fisk collected his wits and grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. “I nearly jumped out of my toenails.”

  “It has been awhile. You are nearly as tall as me.”

  Fisk flattened his hand, palm down, and ran it off the top of his head, drawing it in a dubiously straight line to Bianca. He announced he was taller, which he was not.

  “I thought you moved back to Gull Hole,” he said. “What reason have you to come up here?”

  “I’m looking for someone to tell me about this paternoster.” She held it up and Fisk took it, laying it out in his hand to study.

  “Nothing special by my eye,” he said, giving it back.

  “Neither of us are expert.” Bianca remembered it was not so long ago that she had posed as his mother and pretended that he was her wayward son needing the guidance of a priest at St. Vedast church. What she had really wanted was for him to spy on the clerics there. And he had been a great deal of help in doing so. “Tell me how you fare these days.”

  Fisk shrugged. “Father is away in France fighting for the king. Mother has trouble keeping us fed. ‘There’s too many mouths’, she keeps saying.”

  In many ways, being the daughter of an alchemist was not so different. Every groat went to buy her father’s ingredients or the elaborate equipment that would finally succeed in transmuting base metals into gold; all to no avail. Bianca felt a certain kinship with the little waif, having known what it was like to scrounge and steal for food. She suspected he was out doing just that.

  “Mind you, watch your back,” she warned. “It matters not to vendors and shopkeepers that you are a starving child. Everyone is treated the same in the eyes of the law. You could lose a finger…or worse.”

  “I won’t get caught,” said Fisk, brushing his dark hair away from his face. “I’m too quick.”

  Bianca shook her head. “I thought the same about myself. And if John had not distracted the constable who had me by the ear, today I would have four fingers instead of five.” The two moved to the side of the lane out of the way of a horse-drawn cart. “Watch yourself. That is all I am saying.”

  Fisk shrugged off her concern. “I had a fellow ask me to work for him.”

  “Did you now. Doing what, I wonder?”

  “Helping him help others. Giving food to the poor. He said he could help Mother.”

  “It sounds like a noble cause.”

  “He nearly scared the wits out of me,” admitted Fisk, casting a sheepish glance at her. “A big galumphing fellow was after me and I’d just got free of him when this man crossed my path.”

  “You were being chased?”

  Fisk didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to admit he was up to no good.

  “So, who is this fellow who wants your help?”

  “Brother Ewan.”

  “A monk?”

  Fisk’s bony shoulder met his ear. “I do not know.”

  “Does he remind you of one?”

  “He reminds me of a stubble-chinned coot of the street.”

  Bianca’s brows furrowed in thought. Mayhap the fellow was a pensioned monk, forced out of his old way of life into a new. She wondered how he was able to give food to the poor. She didn’t know how much stipend a monk was given when the king dissolved the monasteries, but certainly it was possible he still followed his vow of charity and poverty.

  “So where does he get this food to give to the poor?”

  “He didn’t say. He just told me to think about it.”

  “Know you where he lives?”

  Fisk shook his head.

  “Then, how are you to find him?”

  “He said he’d find me.”

  “When?”

  Fisk shrugged. In the typical carefree world of a young boy, this was not a concern of his.

  “This sounds odd,” said Bianca. “If you see him again, go the other way.”

  Fisk picked up a stick and threw it at the wheel of a passing cart. “I can take care of myself,” he said.

  “Fisk, a young boy was found hanged at St. Mary Magdalen’s Church this morning,” Bianca had no qualms mentioning the awful crime to her little friend. He needed to understand that the streets were not safe.

  “I heard.”

  Bianca gave him a stern look, hoping to convince him of the seriousness of the hanging. But boys pretend bravery when they are told about danger. And boys learned early to practice wearing a brave face.

  “Mind you, be careful.”

  Before they parted, Bianca invited him to visit her in Gull Hole. She gave Fisk a penny for the boat ride which, by the way his eyes lit up, made her wonder if he wouldn’t spend it on dried currants instead.

  Bianca left the immediate area of the cathedral with its myriad displays of humanity, well intentioned and not. An insistent pamphleteer followed her, waving a broadsheet of lyrics to a popular street ballad. She didn’t stop long enough to hear why she should buy it.

  At Paternoster Row, Bianca slowed to look in windows at stationers and beadmakers. The lane was not a long one, but there were shop keepers there who catered to the more ecclesiastical desires of the community. She stopped outside the first shop that sold the prayer beads and, upon entering, noticed several elaborately decorated prayer books on display.

  The shop owner looked up from reading one of his offerings and bid her welcome.

  “I wonder if I might have a moment, sir?”

  The man removed his reading spectacles and closed the book. “Certainly.”

  “These are lovely,” she said, referring to the prayer books. “Do you make them yourself?”

  “Nay. I do not craft any of the items in my shop. I collect exquisite books and pieces. There is a select group of wealthy clientele whose preferences I try to fulfill. Yet for the interested buyer I do offer the objects you see here.” He spread his arms, inviting her to look at all he had to offer, then lightly pressed his fingertips together and smiled solicitously.

  Surely he must have noticed her common kirtle, her lowborn status, thought Bianca, but he seemed not to care and indulged her curiosity—at least for the moment. A particularly lovely book of hours caught her eye and she admired its embroidered cover. A smooth tulip was stitched in the center, its petals highlighted in shades of pinks and cream. Mossy green swirls of stems and leaves encircled the flower, branching out in a pattern of spirals.

  “Owning such a book would be a privilege,” she commented, clasping her hands behind her back to keep from running her finger over the handiwork. “Indeed, its beauty speaks to the power of its content.”

  The proprietor appreciated her saying this and invit
ed her to look at another even more elaborately stitched cover. It was covered in black silk with a theme of Tudor roses. Silver and gold threads outlined the flowers and then twined away in a pattern of stems and ivy. The entire cover shimmered, reflecting light off the fine metal threads. Bianca, who had never learned the finer art of stitching, could only imagine how time-consuming such a work would have been to make.

  “It is a beautiful sight.” Bianca had to drag her gaze away as she remembered the reason for her visit. “Perchance, sir, do you recognize the maker of this?” She removed the paternoster from her pocket and handed it to the man.

  The shopkeeper was charitable enough not to deride its simple craftsmanship. He laid it on a tall table next to a candle and put on his spectacles. “It is common, of no artistic value,” he said. He identified the materials used to carve the beads and crucifix, confirming what she already knew.

  “But the cross, sir. Can you read the lettering on the back?”

  The man bent over the chain so that the smooth black silk rim of his cap came dangerously close to the lit candle. After a moment of squinting and manipulating the cross, he retrieved a thick weight of blown glass and held it over the questionable characters. “I believe the letters read, ‘Y’, ‘H’, ‘S’.” He slid the beads over to Bianca and handed her the magnifier.

  “The letters look worn,” she said. “I suppose that is a ‘Y’, though it could be a ‘V’. Do you know a maker with these initials?”

  “A paternoster maker would not leave his mark on such a common prayer set. However, the owner of the paternoster might have carved his initials into it.”

  Bianca handed back the lump of glass.

  “There is one other possibility,” said the man. “It might represent the cult of the Holy Name. A secret handshake for papists, as it were.

  “So the owner may not have accepted the King’s reforms?”

  “Possibly.”

  Bianca thought about this. “But it may not be so unusual,” she said, looking up from the beads. “I suspect there are people who keep using their old paternoster. It is an item of personal attachment.”

  “True. These days, it is his majesty’s wish that mechanical recitation be discouraged in favor of mindful petition.” He picked up the rosary and fingered the individual beads. “Why so interested? From where did you get this?”

  “Sir, this morning a boy was found hanged from a dripstone at St. Mary Magdalen’s. It was wrapped around his neck.”

  The shopkeeper handed Bianca the prayer beads as if they were hot coals burning his palms. “Unfortunate child,” he said. “But I am afraid there is nothing more I can tell you.”

  Chapter 8

  When one loves another, how many lives are touched? Twenty years ago, the king fell in love with Anne Boleyn. A not so simple romance that set-in motion seasons of change, cascading, corrupting, affecting, and reshaping lives, molding fate and an entire nation. No group felt the change more than the thousands of religious men and women wrenched from their ecclesiastical paths. Thousands of monks, nuns, friars, and canons were evicted and left without purpose. Acquiescence got them a small pension; refusal was an act of treason.

  London was party to any number of these castaways. They found comfort in their numbers, found pallets on which to sleep in crowded rents, replaced nun habits with kirtles and aprons. Some were easily absorbed into the fabric of this congested city; others struggled for direction. However, this aged monk had found his mission, so to speak.

  Unable to subsist on his allotted pittance, the man had scrabbled to survive. The skills he’d acquired at the monastery were useless outside its walls. No one needed a lector to read bible passages aloud while others ate.

  He had to do something to stop the hunger pangs.

  Arriving at the door off Old Change, he gave his signature four knocks. He waited an equal measure of time during which he checked his knuckles for splinters, then gave another four raps. In response, the door cracked open and a blue eye appraised him.

  With the broad flat of his hand, he pushed open the door thwacking the gatekeeper’s forehead.

  “Where’s Luke?” His stentorian voice filled the hollow space. Neither warm nor cozy, the room stretched the length of the building, an abandoned tannery that still reeked of the tubs of urine and tannin permanently absorbed into its daub.

  A few boys looked at each other, then glanced around and found the missing pixie curled on a bench, sound asleep with his arm for a pillow. One of them stalked over and pulled it out from under his head.

  “Aws, what?” complained the drowsy lad.

  “I’m speaking to you,” said the man, his burly voice vanquishing Luke’s slumberous state.

  Luke sat bolt upright and sprang to his feet. “S...sir,” he stuttered.

  “Did you carry out your task?”

  The boy nodded without hesitation. “I dids.”

  “You dids what?” said the man, purposely toying. The child was really no trouble and practically shook in fear. He didn’t have a mind to lie even if it would save his own skin. Still, he couldn’t help himself. All those years being deferential and obedient had not made him kind.

  “I did as ye asked of me,” answered Luke.

  “Come here, boy.” Above his closely shorn beard, the man’s ruddy cheeks had been rouged by the raw weather, and the boys gathered there wondered if this ruby flush might also have been caused by too many ales.

  Luke hesitated, looking uncertain.

  “Did you not hear me?”

  The boy reluctantly came over. He stared at the ground.

  The man tipped the boy’s chin up so that he could look him in his eye. “You took care of it?”

  “I did!” exclaimed Luke.

  “You would not lie, would you?”

  “Nay, never,” protested the boy.

  For added effect, the man eyed him with a pitiless stare. The other boys shifted uncomfortably; any one of them could be Luke, expecting to be thrashed. But he let go of the boy’s chin and sat in a chair, the only one in the large empty space.

  Luke stood a moment expecting some sort of remonstration--for what, he did not know. When he saw his master sigh and close his eyes he slipped behind the others and hoped he was as forgotten as the wall behind him.

  The man launched into a well-practiced diatribe. “You lads.” He shook his head as if weary of constantly reminding them. “Ye be sinners, do you not understand? You are here because God has sent you.” He swept his gaze over them. “He has entrusted me with turning your hearts to Him. Unto Him our acts do honor.”

  The boys’ eyes began to glaze. They dreamed of gleaming armor and fast steeds. Climbing oak trees in Smythfield and pelting passersby with acorns.

  “These are difficult times. We live under a shadow of evil. Demons vie for your soul.” He leaned forward and clawed the air with one hand. “I must lead ye away from temptation and make ye see what love there is in charity.”

  His course woolen tunic did not conceal his broad chest. He wore a woolen cap and never removed it even on the warmest day. In spite of an unlit brazier in this dank room, drops of perspiration coursed down his temples.

  “I am your shepherd and you are my flock. Our service is for the greater good. We distribute the wealth so that all may know a respite from suffering. For what we do is our secret.” And here he paused for effect, waiting for them to squirm. “God sees into our hearts and you shall be rewarded for your good acts.”

  One of the boys, a new charge who had not experienced the tangled argument of his logic, asked in a crystalline voice that sang several octaves higher than his master’s, “Sir, what shall be our reward?”

  The monk leaned forward looking for the owner of the question. When he found the boy he echoed the question in a barely restrained voice. The kind of voice promising an eruption. “Reward?” he said. “You ask what is your reward?”

  He rose from his chair and the bo
ys collectively shrank back. “Why, the kingdom of heaven is your reward!” His booming voice filled the empty space. He glowered at the boy until the child visibly shook. “And that is enough!” He held the silence until he saw every boy in his charge too terrified to blink. He sat down again.

  To this group of coltish boys, heaven seemed an obscure and meaningless trophy. No matter how many times he told them, all that really mattered to them was that they were fed and had a dry place to sleep. They willingly did anything for those creature comforts. They stole for him, brought him the filched goods, and they endured the few times they were beaten for the small measure of security that he offered.

  The man scrutinized his questioner. “Come here, boy,” he said.

  The child tentatively stepped forward.

  “Do you, child, understand the sacrifice Our Lord made to free you of your sins?”

  The boy didn’t respond. Though his naivety had made him bold, his instincts told him to be wary.

  Here stands the spawn of a heathen, thought the former monk. His eyes narrowed and he saw the nebulous gray aura of an infidel standing before him. He wondered how the boy had managed to avoid exposure to the church for so long. Well, it was his mission to make the child know God.

  “Our Lord died for your sins,” he began. “He endured the excoriating ridicule of hanging on a cross for you. He wore a crown of thorns and never spoke against the men who did this to him. As Christians, we, too, must suffer the calumny of misunderstanding as proof of our faith. We gladly welcome the opportunity to prove our love of God.” His voice had softened, lulling the boys into false tranquility.

  “Luke!” the man’s voice boomed. “Come here.”

  The group snapped alert. Luke hesitated. He knew how this would go. Others nudged him forward--the sacrificial lamb.

  “Luke,” said the man when the lad cowered before him. “So it is written, triginta vulneris absterget mala et plagae; purgatis plagae in secretioribus ventris.” He then addressed the group, noting their petrified faces. “And what does that mean?”